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Page 26 - I'll sup. Farewell. Poins. Farewell, my lord. {Exit POINS. P. Hen. I know you all, and will a while uphold The unyok'd humour of your idleness : Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world...

Page 29 - He was perfumed like a milliner ; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff...

Page 23 - I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the north ; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife " Fie upon this quiet life ! I want work.

Page 108 - God ! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, — Weary of solid firmness, — melt itself Into the sea ! and, other times, to see The beachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for Neptune's hips ; how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration With divers liquors ! 0, if this were seen, The happiest youth, — viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, — Would shut the book, and sit him down...

Page 27 - And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes...

Page 30 - Out of my grief and my impatience Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns, and drums, and wounds, — God save the mark!— And telling me the sovereign's!

Page 147 - When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound ; But now, two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough : — this earth, that bears thee dead, Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

Page 146 - Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth : I better brook the loss of brittle life, Than those proud titles thou hast won of me ; They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh : But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool; And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop.

Page 176 - The tide of blood in me Hath proudly flow'd in vanity till now: Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea, Where it shall mingle with the state of floods, And flow henceforth in formal majesty.